Poets Against War continues the tradition of socially engaged poetry by creating venues for poetry as a voice against war, tyranny and oppression.
A.J. Milne
33 years old
Ottawa, Canada
Systems analyst/consultant, lately, former reporter, occasional essayist. Prolific in my early twenties; haven't written much in this medium in years. 'Outside my Window' is a reprise of work written during the first Gulf War; updated, regrettably, for our times.
Outside My Window (Reprise, 2003)
In the lot outside my window Children are playing at war Young minds behind such wide, clear eyes Stage mock assaults, bold attacks Imaginary weapons brandished In tiny, child's hands
Do they imagine, as they play Living flesh burned to carbon Living men, women, and children Still tenuously And all too temporarily Connected to said living flesh Screaming in unearthly Sky-shattering agony Beyond anything the rest of the living can imagine As they die this way Carbon, then ash, dripping from their bones Caught in the roaring, voracious, pitiless synthetic hell emitted By the relentless machinery Of 21st century warfare
In the lot outside my window Young voices bounce and clatter Through the clear winter air Bell-like, happy shrieks Young alpha males to be Atop a clump of snow in a parking lot Do they picture Raising imaginary flags on quiet city streets In quiet suburban yards Do they picture Bullets tracing Perfect, graceful Euclidean parabola Through soft tissues A soldier's eyes dilated with shock The desert light seeming suddenly That much blindingly whiter Fingers thick and sticky with blood Hand clutched in futility to abdomen As though to hold the remaining shreds of viscera From spilling into the desert And drying, finally From red to brown
Do they imagine The sudden stunned, shocked silence In a tiny household A young mother told The father of her child Choked out her name one last time With the last of his wet, sputtering breath Earlier that morning And that she will never see him again Do they picture The short, trembling, silent, pitiful sobs Of her tiny, wide-eyed child Told by her mother Her mother's eyes still red, and damp Her composure regained just long enough To perform this inevitable ritual Told by her mother Your father who loved you Beyond all else Is gone
Young voices clattering Boys at war At six years of age A gun carved from plastic Is an abstraction, a theme song A sound effect A prop I do not begrudge them their game
But ask yourself this: To a six year old And to your president's cabinet And to yourself, sir What is a gun?
And how long have you lived And how much have you seen And shouldn't you -- All of you -- Shouldn't you know better by now?
